


What a Demon Dreams

by the_pen_is_mightier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale loves Crowley, Crowley loves Aziraphale, M/M, idk how to tag this one fellas, it's a weird one, just buckle up if you're ready for some haunting imagery and symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-09-11
Packaged: 2020-09-23 15:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20342425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_pen_is_mightier/pseuds/the_pen_is_mightier
Summary: Crowley sleeps. His dreams are sporadic and strange. They take him to dark places within his own mind, places he never dares venture while he's awake - but he's beginning to spot a ray of hope that joins them all together.





	1. Chapter 1

In Crowley’s dreams, he walked by starlight. 

His feet made no sound on the soft dirt as he walked, nor did he appear to be disturbing the tall grasses that swayed around his ankles. They glowed silver at night, and bent and rolled with the wind, showing its shape, its contours. He walked silent as a ghost beneath the endless, gaping sky. The world seemed half-formed, teetering on the edge of existence. 

He walked alone. No destination or obstacle drew his eyes to the world in front of him, so he kept his head tilted back, his eyes up at the stars. Idly he tried to count them. He gave up the endeavor quickly. Even if he could number them all, there were thousands, millions, billions you couldn’t see from Earth yet. 

_I used to be one of you_, he thought, the words a beam of darkness up to the glints of diamond in black velvet. _I was a star, shone bright as anything. I danced as part of the cosmos. I helped build the universe, once._

The stars sparkled coldly. They gave no answer. 

Crowley walked on. He wasn’t very aware of himself; the night seemed to be swallowing him up in its vast silence. But he could feel that his heart wasn’t beating. It lay dormant, nestled next to lungs that had never seen air, never drawn life into them and held it, kept it, changed it. When he tried to breathe in, something soft seemed to press over his nose, his throat, restricting him. This world was not for him to consume. He simply walked. 

_I used to be a part of this,_ he said, without speaking. _Used to sing in chorus with the constellations. What happened? What’s cast me so far away?_

It was lonely here in this limitless silver field. It was lonely everywhere. 

Crowley walked for a long time. It was impossible to gauge how long; it felt like longer than a day, but the sky did not move. Did night and day not cycle in this place? Was this world’s curve small enough that he was following the night, moving ceaselessly away from the sunrise? Or was it the opposite - did the night follow him? The sun must not want to shine upon his head. Even the stars hung back, after all. He didn’t stop moving, though he had no idea where he was going or why. He kept his eyes up, though he’d long ago stopped expecting communication from the sky. 

It came as a surprise, then, when one of the stars spoke. 

Almost directly above Crowley, a small, bright star pulsed with light; it seemed to be a new one, or at least one that had only just become visible. Its words, silent like Crowley’s, wrote themselves onto the sky in a shaky hand, unused to existence. 

_I’m afraid_, it said. 

Crowley stopped, finally. In stillness it seemed the wind battered him more than it had in motion. But he stood his ground, his eyes on the star. Could it possibly be it was talking to him? 

_What are you afraid of?_ he asked. 

The star glinted nervously. _I want to reach out to the world and give my light, but I fear I’ll fall down if I reach too far. The other stars tell me to be cautious._

Crowley frowned, considering the little ball of light, turning over its words. The wind was still utterly silent, but it flattened the grass all around with near-painful gusts. It was cold, but dull, like the warning of an August storm. 

_I wouldn’t worry_, Crowley said at last. _You have no way of knowing what’ll cause you to fall. The most anyone can do is what they think is right. And you’re a star, after all - your purpose is to shine._

_Oh_, said the star, _that makes me feel better. Thank you._

Crowley stretched his hand up and his fingers brushed the star’s sharp, celestial edge. _Give me your light, if you like. I could use a star’s warmth tonight._

_Why do you walk down there all alone?_

Crowley grimaced. _Safer not to ask questions._

The star did not speak again. Briefly Crowley wondered if he’d scared it off with the cryptic answer - or if the star had sensed, at his touch, that he was an infernal and unnatural thing, not fit to be addressed by heaven. But in the next moment he felt something flowing down from his fingertips. He gasped - it was hotter than he’d expected, a liquid fire in his veins, very nearly painful. Like warm water over numb feet, it shocked him, and his heart fluttered, nearly beating, but only capable of a half-hearted twist in a chest without breath. But he welcomed the sensation. It was something other than silence, other than emptiness. It was the most contact he’d had from a fellow creature in so very long. 

_Thank you,_ he sighed, lowering his arm at last. 

The star twinkled as though smiling. It seemed happy to have done something kind, and not at all afraid of him. How strange. It must not truly understand what he was. 

Crowley walked on at last. The star remained directly above him as he trekked through the neverending night. He wasn’t very aware of himself, but he felt a smile soften his features slightly; it must be an aftereffect of the light the star had given.


	2. Chapter 2

There was no sunrise, in Crowley’s dream. Somehow, the landscape simply changed, not abruptly or slowly, but seamlessly, craftily, as though there had been no change at all. Now Crowley walked in a desert over burning sand, under a sun-bronzed sky. His feet were bare, and the heat seared his heels, but he kept up a steady pace - what else could he do? This desert was just as endless as the field had been. There was no respite. 

There were no stars here. 

In this place Crowley was able to breathe, and his heart to beat, and he was a little more aware of himself. He could feel, for instance, that his throat was parched and that sweat, lukewarm and sticky, dripped down the back of his neck and over his forehead into his eyes. He tried to swallow, but his mouth felt like a sand bed. He tried, tentatively, to speak, but all that came out was a hoarse groan. Better to stay silent. No one was here to talk to anyway. 

It was excruciating, now, to long for the sky. So Crowley didn’t. As he walked, he focused instead on a single endeavor: forget the stars, forget the sea, forget everything but sand. This world was harsh and bleak, but his imagination was worse. To become a part of the desert would be some relief. 

All his effort went into imagining he was a desert cobra. He pictured himself sliding on his belly over sun-baked stones, scorching heat absorbing into his dark scales. He pictured a forked tongue flicking out of his mouth, tasting the blistering air. He hissed. Though he still felt the pain in his feet, he wondered if it wasn’t lessening slightly, or at least if he was growing acclimated to it. 

If he swallowed enough sand, would his thirst vanish? He didn’t stop to attempt it, because to stoop down would be to break the illusion. Instead he traveled for unchanging miles, imagining hard until he’d nearly convinced himself he really was a snake. 

But finally the sand was interrupted. In front of him Crowley saw a large, dark mass on the ground, a figure kneeling beside it. 

He blinked. A mirage? No, it didn’t disappear as he approached. It came into clearer focus instead: it was a shallow pool, its water impossibly dark in the desert’s stark brightness. And on the far side was a spirit, translucent and wrapped in a simple white robe. 

Crowley opened his mouth, struggling to speak again. But the spirit looked up before he’d made a sound. 

_Oh,_ it said, without words. _Hello._

Crowley frowned. _Can you hear me?_

_Yes, you needn’t speak aloud. Welcome to my pool._

Crowley stood still, staring at the spirit, unsure what to do with himself. Who was this, and what was he doing here in the desert? Was he some sort of guardian? But he wasn’t armed. And he’d told Crowley _welcome._

The spirit motioned him over. _You must be thirsty. I’ll put some water in your hands, if you come here and sit next to me._

Crowley frowned. The words made no sense. _I can’t sit. I have no hands. I’m a desert cobra._

The spirit tipped its head to the side, regarding him with a quizzical look. _No, you aren’t - you’re a man._

Those words broke the trance at last. Crowley looked down at himself, and remembered, and thirst slammed over him like a hot wave of dust. It nearly strangled him in its intensity - he dropped to his knees, mouth open, gagging on the hot, dry air. 

_Oh, goodness, it’s worse than I thought,_ the spirit said fretfully, and rose, its white robe falling in shimmering ripples around it. _Come now, don’t move, just hold out your hands._

Crowley did. His fingers trembled. The spirit, strangely enough, seemed to be trembling as well as it reached down into the pool, cupping dark, cold water in its ghostly palms. When it let the water fall, the chill seemed almost to bite into Crowley’s hands; Crowley worried for a moment they would dissolve, but they drank it in instead, relieved and grateful. When the spirit sat back Crowley raised the water eagerly to his lips. 

Oh, it was exquisite on his withered tongue. He savored it, slowly tilting his head back, letting the cool sweetness run down his throat. His veins sang with new sensation, new vitality. 

_Better?_ the spirit prompted. 

Wordlessly Crowley held out his hands for more. 

The spirit gave him another handful of the water, and when Crowley gulped it down, it had a third ready for him. Crowley drank and drank, so many handfuls he lost count, so much water he should have burst with it, it should have drained the pool. He should have consumed an ocean by the time he finally stopped. 

_Goodness,_ said the spirit again, staring at him as though amazed. _How long have you been walking?_

_Since the beginning,_ said Crowley, breathing heavily, and did not elaborate. 

The desert around him seemed strangely transformed. It was no longer so limp and dead - the white sand shimmered, the sky was bluer than he remembered, and there was a certain inexplicable beauty to the scene despite its harshness. Perhaps it was the pool in the foreground, and the spirit, whose face was still concerned, whose hands still dripped with the water it had given. 

_Well,_ said the spirit, _I wish I could let you stay here, but I am needed elsewhere in the desert._

_That’s all right._ Crowley stood. _I’d better be getting on anyway._

The spirit opened its mouth, as though on the verge of asking another question, but for some reason it appeared to think better of it. Instead its eyes simply followed Crowley rising, brows slightly crinkled, as though trying to understand without words. 

Crowley passed the pool without looking back. But he kept it in his mind, letting the thought of that long drink replace the mental energy he’d exerted to imagine himself a snake. He breathed deeply. It wouldn’t be long, relatively speaking, before thirst swept in again, and who knew how he’d devise to survive it when it came - but for now he was satisfied. For a moment he was human. 

As Crowley dreamed, he looked around at the desert. Off to his right, in the distance but perfectly visible, he saw a single flower blooming from the ground - vibrant pink, stark against blue and white. It was a beautiful thing.


	3. Chapter 3

In Crowley’s dream a forest unfolded around him. Trees rose from the sand, which darkened to cold soil beneath his feet; thick, gnarled trunks twisted around him and unfolded branches like clenched fists. The sun vanished, then the sky - the desert’s brightness was replaced by inky black. 

Inexplicably, it made Crowley nervous. He knew he couldn’t be harmed - he was fairly sure he wasn’t even flesh and blood here, and certainly no animal would choose him as prey. And as for spiritual threats, what more danger could he possibly be in? But still the darkness set him ill at ease. His steps were slower, more careful. He stretched his eyes wide for every scant glimmer of light he could find. 

The forest pressed in on him. Crowley reached left and his hand brushed a sagging branch; right, and he touched an ivy-clad trunk. He squeezed between close-growing foliage that he could barely distinguish from the darkness behind it. Nearly everything here had to be felt, not seen. 

Why was he so nervous? The truth was, Crowley thought, that it had nothing to do with any immediate danger. The truth was, he was worrying this lightless maze might cause him to lose track of his direction. He didn’t want to end up going in circles.

This realization seemed to invite another question, but Crowley wasn’t sure what it was. 

Things felt so unreal here in the dark. Fear filled Crowley like sparks, like spiders, like tiny insects: not enough to overwhelm him, but enough, in their sum, to make it almost impossible to feel anything else. 

_Almost._

Crowley walked as a ghost through utter darkness. And yet there was something in his mind besides the trees that hemmed him in, besides the fear of being lost in here; there was something he still remembered from his walk through the desert. He shut his eyes and thought hard and he could still conjure a picture of that bright pink flower in the sand. 

A strange thing to latch on to - surely he’d had a more significant encounter there? He couldn’t now remember it, it was so difficult here to think at all. But the flower filled his eyes. Crowley stared ahead into the forest’s abyss and pictured it, imagined it, vibrant and beautiful in all its inexplicability. 

And Crowley wished, harder than he’d wished for anything in a long, long time, to see it again up ahead. 

He’d long since stopped expecting favors from the universe. Its creator, after all, was not interested in him - she’d made that clear. He wasn’t expecting reality to listen to his spoken, cried, screamed desires, much less his silent ones. So when he saw a flicker of light up ahead, he was sure it was only his mind running wild. 

Still his breath caught in nonexistent lungs. 

It took several minutes, in which Crowley moved far more slowly than before, for him to process that it was in fact the flower he’d wished for - _prayed for?_ dangerous thought - but here it was. Inch by inch, as though it might vanish like a frightened deer if he moved too suddenly, Crowley drew toward it; its light, from close up, illuminated the trees nearby. Crowley could make out their contours as though they’d been outlined in gold. 

He put out a hand and caressed a single petal. It was like silk. 

Then he looked up, and his mouth fell open - there was another, blooming from a tree to his right, and a third just unfolding straight ahead, and as he gaped around more and more began appearing, illuminating the wood.

Could it be? Crowley dithered by the first flower, unsure, worried if he pushed his luck this would all disappear again. But - a thrill ran through him at the thought - maybe it would be worth it. He gripped the stem hard and pulled the flower up from the earth. With a little _snap_, the blossom sat cupped in his hand. 

Crowley felt a smile, a real, wide smile spread over his face. He couldn’t remember the last time that had happened. Nearly tripping over roots, he stumbled to the next flower, plucking it from its tree and transferring it to his other hand, beginning to gather a bundle. He kept his feet pointed forward, but he strayed off the path he’d been beating, drifting right and left to gather the largest handful he could.

They glowed and buzzed like fireflies. Crowley wanted to plant a bed of them and bury himself in it, smelling their sweet scent, reveling in their mystifying warmth. 

_You’re beautiful_, he told the bundle he had at last clutched in both hands as he continued on. _You’re marvelous._

The bundle pulsed with light. _Am I, really?_

_Really._ Crowley breathed in deeply. He let his nose brush the flowers, then his cheek, still smiling. _You’re so soft._

This seemed to displease the flowers; they wilted slightly in his grasp. _I’m not meant to be soft._

Crowley laughed. _You can’t help it._

The bundle squirmed. _But it’s not what’s wanted of me. What’s wanted -_

_What is it that you want?_

That caused them to go still. Their light was still as bright as before, but not quite as energized, as though Crowley’s question had cast them deep into thought. Crowley kept walking, not minding the silence, the waiting for a response. The woods were so much lighter with this miniature sun in his hands. It was easy, now, to see where he was going, where he was planting his feet, even if darkness swallowed the world again in the distance. 

Finally the flowers spoke again. _What I want is to decorate something beautiful._

_Will I do?_ asked Crowley, nearly flippant. 

The flowers grew so warm, for a moment, that it was almost a struggle to hold them. _Why, yes, I do believe so._

Crowley was delighted, more delighted than he had any right to be. He held the bouquet in the crook of one arm and with his other hand began to thread a single flower through the long strands of his hair. It twined into place easily, willingly. A second followed the first, then a third, creating a pattern; the flowers buzzed again. 

_You have lovely hair,_ they said. 

He supposed he did, though he couldn’t remember what it looked like. Still, when the last flower had slid into place, he felt as though it would make a stunning picture.

Crowley’s steps were light as he walked on. The flowers in his hair provided even better illumination than they had in his hands, and he could almost pretend he was anyone else, any human out for a night-time stroll. He could almost forget his history and live here in the present. 

_Almost._

He walked with a smile until the scene began to change once more. Then the trees gave way, shifting into tall, towering buildings of glass and steel, and the flowers crumbled to dust. And Crowley’s smile faded again. A new dream was beginning.


	4. Chapter 4

He found himself in a new world, one in which sunlight glared off mercilessly reflective building-sides and dirt-clogged foot traffic surrounded racing vehicles. He found himself crowded by bodies with their heads turned down toward pavement, necks braced against a wind he didn’t feel. He was jostled this way and that, and struggled to keep on in the same direction. 

Crowley reached up to touch his hair. No flowers. The strands felt thick and brittle in his grasp. He examined his fingers with a frown - they were coarse and gray, and certainly not made of flesh. 

Had he turned to stone? Crowley rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and heard the chafing, scraping sound it made. His stomach churned.

Then someone hurrying down the sidewalk crashed hard into him. Crowley stilled, feet planted, but the woman stumbled backward several feet, face raked by pain for a moment before her eyes locked on Crowley. At which point her countenance transformed to anger. 

_Monster!_ she screamed, and Crowley saw her mouth move, but he didn’t hear. The world had gone soundless. 

Crowley held up his hands, fighting to speak. _No, I’m not -_

The crowds began to congeal as others paused around the woman, turning to gape at Crowley, starting cries that rose up silent from the sidewalk. More pointing fingers began to thicken the air along with dust. Along with horrified, enraged eyes.

Crowley tried to push his way through the crowd, but it pushed against him, hemmed him in, like some enormous beast. It pushed him backward. Crowley shook his head, straining his ears to hear anything, anything at all, but it felt as though his ears had been filled with glue. 

_Monster!_ was the only word he saw on their lips. 

He should back away. He glanced behind him; the crowd was thinner there. Still, for a moment he hesitated - he didn’t want to move backwards. He didn’t want to forsake his path. Could he circle back to it, if he fled now? 

When he looked forward again the crowd was surging toward him. Their faces were twisted, fists were clenched around rocks. Without another thought he dashed away. 

_Monster! Monster!_ The name followed him, though he was no longer looking at their mouths, though he still heard nothing at all. His feet pounded on cement, heavy stone slapping against stone, grinding, sparks flying from his heels. But each step felt slower than the one before. It was harder to lift his legs each time, harder to push himself off the ground, more of an effort to fly through the air. 

Something hit the back of his head. It didn’t hurt - Crowley suspected his nerves were deadening as the stone in his skin spread deeper within him - but it caused him to stumble, nearly toppling over. He looked back in time to see others in the crowd preparing to throw their stones. 

_No_, he tried to say once more. _No, don’t!_

Someone else hurled his projectile and it hit Crowley in the shoulder. He flinched - again, no pain, but this time he could see a crack split out from the point of impact. 

_You’ll break me_, he pleaded. _Stop, you’re going to -_

A third stone. And then they started coming faster. 

_Monster!_

Crowley turned and fled again, blindly this time, unsure how he was going to get back on his forward path, unsure of anything but the urgent need to escape this crowd. But the humans, the beings of flesh and blood were faster than him. He was heavier every moment, drawn toward the ground, pulled as though the pavement was quicksand. Stones rained down on him, and the cracks they left pierced deeper and deeper with each blow. His legs were unwieldy beneath him. 

Then a fresh wave of people appeared in front of Crowley, blocking his path. Crowley skidded to a halt, feet tearing strips in the sidewalk, eyes widening under stone brows - these people carried knives instead of rocks. 

Some of the knives were aflame. 

No retreat back the way he’d come. No progress forward. His head whipped from side to side - not a second to choose the right path - and then he dashed down a side street. They gave chase, spilling into the alleyway behind him, flowing like a liquid, more rapidly than anyone should be able to. Or maybe Crowley was moving in such slow motion he simply couldn’t keep up with them. Either way, they gained. Flaming blades sang past his ears as he wove wildly around to avoid them. 

_Monster! Monster! MONSTER!_

Desperation roared through his solidifying veins. The cracks from endless blows reached nearly all the way through him now, and threatened any moment to crumble him like a weathered statue in a storm-lashed temple. He was practically doubled over as he ran, clutching at his arms, at his torso. Still everything was deathly silent. Was this how his journey was going to end? 

It couldn’t! He’d come so far. 

But at the end of the alleyway was another mob. And the people there were clad all in white, and their eyes flashed with a terrifying brilliance, and Crowley knew without a doubt that if he fell in among them it was over. 

His legs were a hair away from giving out underneath him, collapsing into a thousand pieces, bringing the rest of him clattering to the street when something shot out from a doorway. Something heavy and solid that grasped him by the shoulders and _pulled_, with more strength than Crowley had, strength enough to haul his stone form out of the street. 

_What -_

A door slammed, and Crowley found himself in a dim corridor. And the crowds were locked outside. And arms encircled him, tight enough that he couldn’t move, that he was caught on his knees. 

He looked up. The face of his rescuer glowed brightly enough to hurt Crowley’s eyes, so he couldn’t see its features. He shuddered. He wasn’t so close to breaking with the arms around him, so he lowered his head again, pressing himself more fully into them.

_Are you all right?_ demanded a voice from above. _Are you still in once piece? Are you whole?_

_Barely_, Crowley gasped. 

_Stay still_. The arms tightened. _Just stay still. I’ll do what I can._

And Crowley stayed, allowing himself to be held just fleetingly, letting some of the warmth of the embrace bleed into his chilled bones. After a moment he thought he could feel the cracks in him knitting back together. 

_Ah,_ he said. _Better. Thank you._

But the arms did not pull away. 

_Where are you going?_

Crowley blinked. _What?_

The voice above him spoke quickly, in a rush, as though afraid of its own words, as though afraid of what Crowley’s response might be. It spoke as though it had been working up the courage to ask for a long time. _Where is it you’re going? With all this endless tread forward and forward and forward, what are you trying to reach?_

Silence again. Crowley stared straight ahead, dumbstruck. Surely he knew the answer - surely he knew why he’d been so dedicated to this walking? He remembered resolving, at the very start of his journey, not to stop until he’d reached his objective. Surely, surely he remembered what that objective was? 

He cast his mind as far back as it would go. It returned nothing. 

_I…_

His lack of an answer terrified him more than the mob had. 

The being was silent for a long time, its arms still around him such that he couldn’t get a good look at it. Finally Crowley responded for it. He pushed himself up off the floor, disentangled himself from the arms, and turned away - didn’t look back at it, didn’t try to squint into that face filled with light. He didn’t belong with it anyway. 

He opened the door back out onto the street. Deserted. The crowd had lost interest. Crowley strode out, working hard to empty his brain, to forget once more; he found his path again, on the packed sidewalk beneath the glaring sun, and slid into the crowd. They took no notice of him. 

He walked.


	5. Chapter 5

The transition this time was abrupt. Crowley was wrenched from the city, off the pavement, and the people and the buildings and the ground itself were yanked down and away. Crowley found himself high in a cold sky, his wings materializing just in time to beat, broken and desperate, against empty air. 

He gasped. Something was wrong with the wings. They were bench out of shape, twisted, so they barely kept him aloft. He rose and fell with each painful flap, zigzagging up and down and barely forward. They wouldn’t catch and glide on the wind. He panted with the exertion of this relentless flinging himself skyward, but he couldn’t let go, couldn’t let himself fall - he had to continue on. 

_Where are you going?_

At least he thought he did. 

Did he? 

Every wrench of his wings down hurt worse. He couldn’t do this, this couldn’t last more than a few minutes - _ah_ \- a few seconds - he was pitching to the side, one wing nearly crumpling in on itself, this was impossible. Crowley grasped at the clouds, trying to find purchase in sweating fingers, but they fell away, mere wisps, vapors. Nothing to hold. He dropped a few feet and found he couldn’t regain the altitude. 

He couldn’t fall, even if he didn’t know where he was going. Landing would kill him. Unless there was no ground at all, which was entirely possible - maybe he’d simply hurtle forever through space. 

He couldn’t! 

Why, oh, he didn’t know why, he was so confused, this world was so vast and strange, but he knew he _had_ to keep moving or this would all have been for nothing. 

He was dropping. It was too late. His flapping grew more frantic, more desperate, but it was no use - he tumbled forward, headfirst, then feet-first, rolling over himself in the sky as his broken feathers gave out entirely. 

_Help!_

The cry was dragged out of him. He faced momentarily skyward as he fell, and saw nothing above him, no friendly face, no compassion from the fathomless blue. But still he screamed for it. _Help! Help me!_

And it happened once more, an impossible, dangerously inexplicable response to his words - as though someone was listening, though he shouldn’t allow himself to think it, it would only bring agony to think it. A piece of the sky itself split partly from the whole. From directly above Crowley, it leaned down, uncurling a bright blue strand like an arm reaching to catch him. 

But Crowley didn’t get the chance to stretch his hands up for it. He didn’t get the chance to savor shocked relief. In the next moment an earsplitting _crack_ rang through the air, and the piece of sky broke completely from the rest, and plummeted. 

_No!_

Crowley’s heart jumped into his throat. He forgot, for a moment, that he was falling himself, and with an excruciating lurch of his wings flung himself toward the falling piece of sky. It was hurtling downward as though it weighed more than lead or iron. It flashed, its tendrils flailed helplessly, but nothing stopped its descent. 

A flame lit in Crowley’s stomach, hotter, brighter, more real than anything he could remember feeling before. An emotion for which he had no name, a huge, pressing, bursting, screaming emotion, roared through every part of him so that he forgot everything else. He forgot his own fear, and his own pain, and his own infinite journey away and towards in a world endlessly hostile to him. He moved without thinking at all. 

A lucky thing. If he’d been able to think, he’d have remembered that his wings were too broken to fly - but he didn’t remember. He flew. 

He opened his arms and grabbed the piece of sky, enfolding it, feeling its weight drag him down, and once more beat upwards. Still the emotion surged through his veins. He could still see where the break was in the sky - the patch of darkness left in this piece’s wake. That was a good sign. If the blue closed up again it was all over. He strained every muscle - higher, higher, higher - and kept his arms tight around his charge. He wasn’t breathing, but it didn’t matter, he didn’t have to, all he had to do was _think._

Slowly, deplorably slowly, he rose. His arms lifted the piece of sky over his head, tilting to fit it back into its place, arms trembling, knuckles white. 

Yes - he felt it slide into the gap. He felt its tendrils connect once more to the sky around it, its edges fading into obscurity with the rest. The next moment, the sky had soared far above him again, no longer within his reach, no longer reaching down for him. 

His hands were still lifted, fingers now curled around nothing. He hung suspended. 

_Going to fall -_

He fell. 

But the flaming sensation in his veins hadn’t entirely subsided. As he plunged toward the ground once more, his wings felt a little warmer, a little stronger suddenly - as he began to flap once more, though it still sent corkscrew coils of pain into his back with each stroke, it was possible to continue. 

Crowley glanced up, at the smooth, unbroken sky. Then he fixed his eyes ahead again. 

Forward. Oh, he didn’t know why. But maybe he would remember.


	6. Chapter 6

In Crowley’s dream four walls closed in around him, shutting him in a room just a little too large to be called a closet. For a moment he paused to look around at it. Completely devoid of decoration, walls and ceiling all the same sickly shade of light beige. All the same size, too - if he spun in a circle with his eyes closed, he’d be unable to tell, when he opened them again, which way he’d been facing. Crowley shivered. Better not do that, then. 

Instead he took a tentative step forward. Hesitantly, he put out his hand and laid it on the wall in front of him, testing its solidity. Solid. 

He stretched his arms out wide to either side, and his hands rested on both walls. Solid. 

Well, there must be a way out. He touched the front wall again, running his fingers over it slowly - it was smooth, like tile, but it wasn’t tile - and searching for any crack or opening. Any indication of a hidden door. Idly he moved his fingers down to where a doorknob would be, if there had been a door. 

And a doorknob appeared. Right there, nestled in his hand. And a door unfolded out from it. 

It wasn’t enough, anymore, to shock Crowley; in the deepest part of his mind he’d been expecting it, though he’d still never dare say so out loud. But it still sent a shiver up his arm and, instinctively, he released the knob as though it had burned him. 

The room remained silent and entirely bare, aside from the door. 

Crowley breathed in slowly, his breath trembling a bit, and he took the knob again and turned it. The door eased open. Through it he expected to see the sky again, or perhaps some new scene - but instead he was met with another barrage of beige. Frowning, he crossed fully into the next room, shutting the door softly behind. It was identical to the room he’d just left. 

Crowley looked back. He looked forward. The next wall was blank, but as he approached it, as he reached once more for the place where a doorknob ought to be, a door materialized for him. He opened it and glimpsed the exact same room beyond. 

Ah, so this was the game. 

Crowley measured his steps in the next room. Three, exactly, that took him from one side to the other. Then a shift of his feet, he opened the door, and three more steps to the wall in the next room. A shift, and he opened the door. It was easy to settle into a rhythm with it. It required no strain, no strength. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty. If he kept moving, didn’t let himself look around, there was no chance of losing his direction. 

Three steps, open door. Simple. Crowley tried to lock his muscles into the movement and let his mind wander. 

But the walls, bare and tight and drably lit, and the ceiling, low enough that it felt as though it was pressing down on Crowley’s head, didn’t lend themselves to creative thinking. Crowley found himself struggling to even think of other colors, even imagine that his surroundings were brighter than they were. The three steps weren’t long enough to be varied. What could he do? 

Crowley knew what was going on. He understood - they meant to drive him mad in these rooms that never ended. Make him feel like a hamster running endlessly on a loop, never getting anywhere no matter how much or how long he strained himself. Make him run until his feet wore through his shoes and his bones wore through his feet and he finally stopped, closing his eyes and letting the repeated motion of walls and doors pass him in his mind, forever etched there in branding metal, so he could run forever in his own imagination even as he wasted away unmoving -

But he wouldn’t. Crowley shook his head and brought himself sharply back to the present. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. 

He wouldn’t be in this loop forever. That was impossible. At some point it had to come to an end. 

Didn’t it? 

Crowley walked and walked until his eyes glazed over, and all he could see was the sharp outline of the door handle against a sea of swimming beige. His feet made no noise on the floor. He tried stomping across the room, but no matter how hard he stomped, the limp beige carpet absorbed the sound. 

The loop would end. He knew it would. He _knew_. 

Didn’t he? 

Still he heaved a sigh of relief when a moth fluttered clumsily down from the ceiling. When it landed on his shoulder as though too tired to fly on its own. Because he hadn’t been sure, not really, not enough.

_Hello_, he said, not opening the next door yet, waiting instead for the moth to adjust its wings. 

The moth shivered. _This place is not bright enough for me_. 

_No_, said Crowley. _Me neither_. 

_But I am looking for the light_. The moth buzzed softly. _I am going to search on the ceiling until I find a crack, and climb through up to the sun._

_A crack in the ceiling?_ Crowley raised his eyebrows. _If there was one large enough for you to crawl through, we’d see the light coming through it._

_Maybe_, said the moth. _Maybe not. I will keep searching._

_I’m searching too_. Crowley gestured toward the door in front of him. _I’m going through these doors again and again until I get out of whatever maze we’re in._

The moth buzzed again. _An interesting idea. I wish you luck_. 

_I need it_, said Crowley, a half-hearted joke, not really a joke at all. 

The moth lifted off his shoulder and fluttered toward the far wall. _Yes, I can see that. You are very dark_. 

Crowley looked down at himself. He was clad in black, all black, as usual, but he had the feeling somehow that that wasn’t what the moth was talking about. He sighed. _Yes, well, it’s been a long time since I’ve had any light inside me._

The moth was silent for a moment before answering. When it did speak, its voice was somehow gentler, quieter. _I’m sorry_. 

The words, the impossible softness of them, nearly made Crowley melt into the floor. Who was the last being to apologize to him? To share concern for a base creature’s plight? Suddenly his feet ached in a way they hadn’t before. Suddenly he felt obscenely, embarrassingly needy. 

_Come with me_, he begged, _won’t you?_

The moth landed above the doorframe. Barely visible; Crowley had to crane his neck to see it. 

_No_, it said, and it sounded pained. 

Crowley held up supplicant hands. _Why not?_

The moth’s reply stretched out like a fraying ribbon between them. It rippled in the stifling air like starlight, and it brought Crowley back, for a moment, to an endless field and a wide black sky. And the hushed words of a newborn star. _I’m afraid._

Crowley flinched. Damn himself, of course, he should have known. Of _course_ it was afraid of him. He was an outcast, one of the Fallen, he was bound to hellfire and brimstone and he would never escape it. What had he been thinking? How dare he make such a request? High off of a few coincidences he’d mistaken for answers to prayers and he had the audacity to ask -

_Right_, he said. _Never mind._

Damn himself to the end of time. 

The moth didn’t speak. Probably best. Crowley didn’t think he could stand to be in its presence another second. He yanked open the door and lurched through it, blind, not looking where he was going, foot out for another three perfect, measured, identical steps. 

Nothing for it but to go forward. It had to end. 

But his foot didn’t sink into carpet. He processed a second too late that he wasn’t in another room. Then his weight came down on flimsy wood and he pitched sideways, nearly capsizing, as he took in the scene around him. 

Muted sun. Slate-gray sky. Slate gray below him, clouds glaring off of choppy waves like the opposite of sunlight, shattering into fragments that shifted and swirled and consumed the air. Crowley’s eyes widened. 

_No_, he thought suddenly, desperately, _no, not this, anything but this -_

On the back of his neck he felt a fat drop of rain.


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley was crammed into a tiny rowboat, barely big enough to fit his own body, and rowing frantically as ever-larger waves rocked him from side to side, water slapped on his miniature hull, puddles formed at the bottom faster than he could even attempt to remove them. Rain lashed at him, wind swirling this way and that, thunder booming overhead. 

Water covered everything. There was no more land. No more of anything except waters, waters, below and above. 

Crowley’s shoulders ached, but he rowed on, his head snapping from side to side, his eyes scanning the surface of the water. There a few feet away from his boat was a small, bedraggled gray bird floating in the rising flood. He reached out a hand and snatched it up, hastily feelings its heartbeat - still alive - before depositing it by his feet, the only free space available in this ridiculous little island. 

Stroke by stroke of his flimsy wooden oars he searched for drowning birds, collecting them before the waves could take them under. As many as possible, though he knew he couldn’t possibly reach them all. They were everywhere.

Only a few feet of space separated the sea from the clouds; the world was nearly swallowed. The rain barely had to fall. But it did fall, oh, inevitably, as the birds had from the flooded air, as things always did though they didn’t mean to. Crowley scooped up another bird and had to listen for several seconds before hearing its heart beat, feebly, in its waterlogged chest. He rowed on. 

Jagged lightning split the low-hanging sky. Thunder bellowed directly at its heels. The next bird Crowley found didn’t move at all, and he couldn’t feel a heartbeat anywhere. He dumped it with the others anyway. 

He didn’t know which direction he was going anymore. He’d lost his route. He couldn’t think about it, he had to focus on what he was doing, he had no room in his mind for anything else. _You win, universe._ What had he been going toward? Now he’d never know. Didn’t matter, he had to get to the birds, they were all that was left as the water rose, all the life still spared by the wrath of a force he didn’t and could never understand -

And far ahead he saw it. Flitting through the sky. Somehow with a little filtered sunlight glinting off its snow-white wings - a dove. 

_Help me!_ he called. 

The dove didn’t appear to hear. It wasn’t flying toward him, but its arc through the sky was so ragged that it was hard to tell where it _was_ flying. 

_Dove_, he screamed, _help me, please!_

It didn’t answer.

Crowley directed his boat toward it, redoubling his rowing efforts though it hardly seemed possible. Directly beneath the spot where the dove flew, another gray bird was sinking, its wings stirring feebly in a futile attempt to keep itself above the surface.

_Grab that one!_ Crowley cried. _Bring it to me!_

The dove’s voice was soft and feathery, practically a sigh. It sounded as though it came from far away. _I can’t. I can’t._

_Rubbish - of course you can!_

_I will fly until I find the sun._ The dove’s voice was a frayed murmur. _I will find out what’s wanted of me. I will do what I’m meant to do, and no more._

_But they’ll die if you don’t help me!_ Crowley beat towards the gray bird; the dove was not near enough, now, to save it. It had to be him. He reached it just before it sank beyond his reach in the deep. 

_I’m sorry_, the dove whispered. _I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to do._

_Why won’t you trust me?_

_I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid._

Was the dove repeating itself, or was it an echo Crowley heard? He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t be sure he was hearing anything, as the dove flew up, up toward the clouds - couldn’t be sure the words weren’t only in his own mind. 

The dove’s flight was taking it up into the clouds now. In a moment Crowley would lose sight of it. 

His eyes widened. _Wait -_

Another sky-rending bolt of lightning came from on high. Flashing through the clouds, down, down, shattering over the surface of the water. And Crowley saw everything clearly. He saw the dove, arrested in flight, caught in the light’s holy, piercing beam - he saw its wings splayed out for a moment, as though the lightning was tearing it apart. He heard the inhuman scream that seemed to come, not from its silenced beak, but from all of it, from everywhere. He heard it reverberate through this tiny space between the sea and the sky. 

And then the lightning was gone, and the world was dark, darker than it had ever been, and Crowley barely saw the dead dove fall. 

_No!_

Terror swept through Crowley. No, no, it couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. His heart rioted in his chest along with the thunder, and he lost himself completely, shooting to his feet, almost tipping his boat once more. The birds were safe. As many of them as he’d been able to save. But the dove, the dove -

_You can’t be gone!_

He dove from the boat into the sea. 

The water was ice, biting, clawing at him, plunging down his throat and into his eyes. He paddled furiously through rocking, pitching waves, toward the place the dove had fallen, heaving lungful of air above and then sinking below to feel blindly around. 

_Dove! Dove! Moth! Flower! Sky - spirit - star - angel, damn it all, where are you?_

The water rolled over him and he lost all sense of direction, forgetting which way was up, forgetting everything but his desperate call. His lungs burned for air. Oh, of course it was _here_ his body realized it existed and had needs. Of course he had to come to the brink of death to decide he was alive. The cold was penetrating every part of him, shrinking him, pulling him to pieces. 

_Angel! Angel, don’t go!_

But he couldn’t swim. The flood was too powerful. It was too much, he was so tired, he had walked so long and it had all been useless. He was alone. 

It might, after all, be easier to give in to the deep. 

_Angel…_

It might be better to drown. 

But then Crowley felt the water shift around him. Something beneath him was rising - something massive, so massive its very ascent through the water seemed to rival in noise the crashing waves. Crowley’s breath stilled. It was coming toward him. For a moment he was afraid, for a split second his mind was filled with monsters and dangers and hungering jaws - but then enormous arms wrapped around him and began bearing him toward the surface. 

_I have you_, came a voice, deep and booming. 

Crowley couldn’t move. He was frozen. 

_I was wrong._

_Angel?_

_My dear._

Their heads broke the surface of the flood, and Crowley could see again, he could look at the creature that had rescued him. It was many-limbed, many-headed, with a thousand wings and eyes, and it _glowed_ \- glowed with a brightness that seemed to banish the rain around them. In the creature’s embrace it almost seemed there was no storm at all. 

_You’re alive_, said Crowley shakily. 

_I’m alive. But I’m changed._

_I can see._

The creature floated back toward Crowley’s tiny boat, half-aloft in the air, as though gravity meant nothing to it. Crowley clung to its gigantic frame. He was shivering violently in the relentless wind, but that didn’t matter at the moment. Here he was not alone. He was held. 

_You have journeyed so far_, said the creature. _I’m sorry I made you wait so long._

Crowley squeezed his eyes shut. _So, you aren’t afraid of me anymore?_

_Of you?_ There was surprise in the creature’s voice, genuine surprise, as though the idea had never occurred to it. _My dear, I could never be afraid of you._

_But you said -_

_I feared the other stars._

Crowley gaped at the creature. He couldn’t believe such a statement. It was too good to be true. It must be a lie, must be another trick that in a moment would be snatched away. 

_How could I fear you? Since the very beginning you’ve been there for me. You encouraged me to give my light in the night sky. You came to me in the desert when I was all alone. You called me beautiful in the forest. You saved me from falling out of the sky. I have been to a thousand places, darling, and never understood what I was doing there - and you have been the only thing I can rely on. Tell me, how in the world could I do anything but love you?_

Crowley shook like a leaf in a cyclone. _I can’t - I’m not -_

The creature held him tighter. _Shh, dear. You are everything._

He buried his face in the creature’s chest and sobbed. 

Soon enough they reached the boat, and the creature deposited him gently back into it, landing him among his rescued birds. His oars were gone, but they were unnecessary - the creature sank back into the water and pulled the craft along, its route sure through the waves, unwavering. It seemed to have a sense of direction based on something Crowley didn’t understand. 

_Where are we going?_ he asked. 

The creature looked back at him. _Toward land._

_But there is no land._

_There is always one land, no matter how high the waters rise. I think I finally understand where you’ve been walking all this time._

Crowley blinked. His head rose. In front of them, suddenly, he saw the outline of a mountain beginning to take shape - a dark, hulking mass that rose impossibly high over the flood. His stomach dropped at the sight of it. 

_Oh_, he breathed. _Oh, I remember._


	8. Chapter 8

In Crowley’s dream he and his companion reached the shore together. He on his rowboat, and the angel - he knew now, finally knew, what it was he’d been meeting this whole long time - floating without assistance onto the sand. When they landed the angel had shrunk slightly, molded himself into a shape a bit more human-looking, though still with enormous wings, and flashing eyes, and an unearthly glow about him that seemed to light up the world. 

_Here we are, at last_, said the angel. 

Crowley shivered. He didn’t quite know whether it was the chill of the rain-slicked beach or the fear in his bones that caused it. _Yes._

_Are you ready?_

The mountain loomed high in front of them. Crowley took an experimental step towards it; he half-expected it to retreat like a mirage, but it didn’t. It was really in front of him. His destination. Dark, stone-hard and silent, but _real._

_Yes_, he said. 

The angel smiled a soft smile. _I won’t be going with you, you know._

Crowley blinked. _You won’t? Why not?_

_You must know, this is the part of the journey you’re to undertake alone._

He scowled. _Oh, this part, is it? I’ve always been alone._

The angel stepped forward, taking Crowley’s hand. His gaze was flint. In all the times Crowley had seen him - as a star and a spirit and a flower and a dove - he’d never seen this strength before, this power that thrummed beneath his surface. Not until the lightning had struck him and he’d risen from the waves. 

_Darling_, he said, _you’ve never been alone._

The words made something small and sore hum in Crowley’s chest. Gazing into the angel’s eyes he could almost be induced to believe them. 

_I’m afraid_, he admitted. 

The angel smiled. _It’s all right. You’re braver than I was._

_But I don’t know what’s going to happen._ He thought back to all the plans he’d made for when he finally reached this place - he remembered them, now, they’d all come flooding back when he’d laid eyes on the mountain. He thought of the angry speeches he’d written in his mind on endless treks through sandstorms and jungles and battlefields. He thought of the desperate petitions he’d come up with, later, when he’d been too tired to rage. He thought of the pitiful, groveling apologies he’d resolved to try those times he’d felt like a hollowed-out skeleton, a breath away from crumbling to dust. Somehow none of them seemed appropriate anymore. 

_What do you want to happen?_ the angel inquired. 

Crowley swallowed. He didn’t dare voice what he really wanted. He had no idea how the spark of hope had managed to survive this long, when everything in the universe - including Crowley himself - had tried so hard to kill it, but he certainly wasn’t going to encourage it. _I don’t know._

The angel squeezed his hand. _Crowley._

Crowley trembled. 

_After everything you’ve been through, is it possible you might still allow yourself to dream?_

The question sank heavy into him. Like a strip of blazing flame, it burned, and yet it held the potential to light up parts of him he’d forgotten even could be lighted. To illuminate corners of his mind and his heart he’d long since resigned to languish in dust forever. 

_To dream…_

_Will you dare, my dear?_

Crowley bit his lip. Would he? Was it possible? It had been so, so long. And yet…

_Go on_, said the angel. _She’s waiting for you._

And Crowley took his gaze off the angel, and the angel released his hands, and he stepped forward toward the sharp rising rocks. First steps hesitant, then a little steadier as he continued. His eyes unerringly found the dark opening that led beneath the mountain - it required no climbing to reach, only winding through a flat, rocky path, and then, at the entrance, working up the courage to step into utter darkness. 

He swallowed again. His throat was real. All of him was real - there was no longer any question of that. All that uncertainty had evaporated the moment he’d plunged into the ocean. But other uncertainties, other fears, still remained. 

_Dare to dream._

He entered the cave. 

Once inside the darkness softened, the contours of the space becoming visible: it was a wide, high-ceilinged cavern, surprisingly plain and bare, no crystals glinting from the walls or ceiling, no diamonds sparkling from the ground. Plain dirt, remarkably cool and soothing under Crowley’s bare feet, spread out around him instead. 

It was another moment before he saw the cave’s other occupant. She was at the opposite end. A woman clad in simple white, without wings, without a halo or a thousand eyes, without anything distinguishing her from a human. Her face, Crowley saw as he approached, was lined, and her hair was shot through with silver. She sat cross-legged, eyes shut. For a moment Crowley thought she might be asleep. 

Then her eyes opened, and locked immediately on him. 

Crowley had rehearsed many ways this conversation might begin. As many as he’d had emotions about it, he’d had different plans, different ideas. As many days as he’d cursed this woman’s name, he’d practiced everything he’d say when he finally had her ear. But none of it occurred to him now. He stood frozen, taking in her gaze, mind numb and empty. 

And she smiled. _Crowley. At last._

His mouth opened, but terror kept it from producing words. 

_Would you like me to call you that?_ She rose, her movements fluid as though she were a liquid, her white robes billowing around her. _Or would you prefer I use your angel’s name?_

_I…_ Crowley couldn’t fathom how to respond to such a question. _Crowley is my name._

_Just as well_. Her smile was radiant. _It was the one you chose for yourself. That gives it a power I couldn’t bestow._

The words made no sense to him. The way she was looking at him, without anger, without the condemnation that had always painted her features in his delirious imaginings, without the cold indifference he’d come to associate with mentions of her name, it wasn’t possible. Crowley’s feet felt cemented to the ground. Otherwise, he might have backed away. 

_Sit with me, Crowley,_ said the woman, gesturing to the spot where she’d been perched. 

Wordless, Crowley kept still. 

She raised her eyebrows. _If you’d like to?_

He shuddered. Like a fragment of a shattered bowl, a broken piece of one of his many rants rose up in his throat. _If you’re going to kill me, just get it over with!_

This demand provoked no surprise in the woman’s face. She regarded him calmly, as though waiting for him to continue. 

Another coughed-up sentence. _I’ve almost died a thousand times to get to you - I don’t have the power to fight you, if it’s a fight you want - if you want me thrown back down into the fire, I can’t stop you! But don’t_ \- he lowered his head, unable to look at her - _don’t mock me._

Slowly, as though giving Crowley time to pull away, the woman drew even nearer. She put a hand under his chin and lifted his face to look him in the eyes. When she saw the tears in them - tears Crowley had been unable to stifle, hard as he’d tried - she wrapped her arms tight around him. 

_Crowley_, she said, _my son._

Crowley’s breath caught in his throat. Those words stole the air from his lungs, flattening him all at once - his heart took up a frenzied beating in his chest. What had she said? Surely he’d misheard? Surely she hadn’t - not to him, not to a demon -

_My son_, she said again, _my dear child, it’s all right to be angry with me. Go ahead and spit on me; I know what you’ve suffered. I have never stopped loving you._

He couldn’t control his violent shuddering now, the tremors that wracked his body - couldn’t hope to keep still and calm as she embraced him. He could barely even stand; he thought that if she let go of him his knees might buckle. But she didn’t let go. 

_It had to be this way_, she murmured. _Freedom comes at such a high price. You had to decide to do what was right without me - had to defy orders, to walk alone, to become fully real. You had to learn how to love apart from me. I know how much it hurt._

_Hurt_, said Crowley inarticulately. 

She drew her arms back; Crowley’s head was bowed, and he watched as her hands appeared in the space between them. Saw her roll up her silken sleeves to reveal scars driven through her wrists. 

_You see_, she said, _I’ve suffered too._

His eyes widened. He pulled away from her, met her gaze again. No trace of deception there. _Then - then it’s true? Everything he said? You and him -_

_We are one. Yes._

_You really…_

_All of it._

Crowley’s breath quaked on its way out. The woman smiled again, a gentle smile now, and tugged him back toward where she’d been sitting. She planted herself down again, cross-legged, and Crowley sat before her in the same position. He knotted his fingers together to keep them from shaking. 

_You have questions_, the woman said. _Ask them. Ask them now that I can answer._

_You don’t hate me for my questions?_

_I love you_, she said, _for all that you are. I always have._

_But your love hasn’t comforted me_. He didn’t know how he built up the courage to say it, but say it he did, the words spilling from his lips as easily as water. 

The woman put a hand on Crowley’s, lightly, as though to reassure him she wasn’t angry. _No, it hasn’t. My aim was to set you free to live beyond me. I’m afraid I must have seemed cold to you, even cruel. But I sent one who was able to love you better._

Warm memories flooded through him. _Yes. The star._

_The angel_. She squeezed his fingers, encouraging. _He loves you with everything he has, everything he is. He had to learn, as well, how to love without following orders. Do not be too hard on him for taking so long._

_I could never_. Crowley gave a watery smile. 

_I hope you aren’t angry with me, that I chose you to fall, and him to stay in the sky._

_How could I be angry at that? Do you think I’d want him to go through what I did?_

The woman was silent a moment. Crowley looked up at her, and saw, with some shock, that she was on the verge of tears. 

_What?_ he said. 

_Oh, my son…_ She took him in her arms again, pulling his head against her chest, holding him tight as though trying to envelop him. The hug seemed, inexplicably, to communicate some long-checked emotion - as though she had missed him. _I am so proud of you._

There with his forehead pressed against the woman’s heart, with her soft sleeves surrounding him, with words so sweet they paralyzed him ringing in his ears, Crowley at last let himself go still for a moment. For a brief space of time he relaxed into the arms that held him, and let light fill his mind, and let himself hope.

_Good_, the woman whispered. _I can feel you are starting to believe it._

_Starting_. Crowley lifted his hands and, tentatively, put his arms around the woman as well. _Just a little bit._

_That’s enough for me._

He allowed himself to float there, in that cave, in the wonderful reality he’d never had the courage to ask for. He allowed himself to squeeze the last tears from his eyes, then felt them dry salty on his lips, and smiled. He allowed himself to remember what Heaven had once been like. 

And then he pulled away, and breathed in without trembling. 

_I think_, he said, _I’m going to wake up soon._

The woman nodded. _Then we must say goodbye._

_Was this real? All of this? I mean…_ Crowley gestured around at the cave. _I know this is in my mind, but am I really talking to you? Everything you’ve said to me, can I believe it when I’m awake?_

The woman took Crowley’s face in her hands. _Can you?_

He stared at her. 

_Can you dare to believe how loved you are, Crowley?_

And the answer rose up from deep within him, not snapped out in response to all the pain that had defined his existence for all this time, but full and real and rich, from a world of light and hope and love that nothing he’d been through had been able to rob him of. From a center of him that had not fallen, that would never fall, that was entirely unbreakable. 

_Yes_, he said. _Yes_. 

He felt the mountain around him beginning to dissolve, beginning to spin and wrap around itself and be swept back away into his subconscious mind as he struggled toward the waking world. But for the final few moments he could see the cave, the woman smiled a farewell smile and spread her hands wide. 

And everywhere at once bright pink flowers burst from the walls and floor. Crowley gasped as they flooded his vision, as their soft scent filled the cave, engulfing him. And out of one flew a dove with snow-white wings, and it began to circle the room and sing, and music filled Crowley’s ears. And a bright blue sky unfolded above him, and a warm sun shone thick, golden beams upon his head, and he felt his wings unfold from his back - large, whole, undamaged, beautiful - and sweep him up, up, into a sky that shone with a million stars. 

Up, up, up toward a bed.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end of this fic... thank you to everyone who stuck with it all the way through. You're a small group, but you're very encouraging! This is the first multi-chapter work I've ever finished here one ao3, and you lovely commenters are the reason why. Let me know what you think of the ending!!

Crowley opened his eyes. 

The first thing he was aware of was a warm weight next to him. His body was pressed up against it, but it was unfamiliar to him - he’d never woken up to such a sensation before. And yet he wasn’t afraid as he blinked and let the blurriness of sleep swim away. He knew, already, what would be waiting for him. 

“Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “I was beginning to think you’d never wake up.” 

Crowley lifted his head. Aziraphale was sitting half-up, propped against his pillows, reading a book. Crowley had been curled around him with his head in his lap. As their eyes met Aziraphale smiled warmly, and ran a hand through his hair. 

“Did you sleep well, dearest?” he asked. “It’s nearly noon.” 

It was the first time Crowley had ever woken up next to someone else. It took him a moment to remember how they’d fallen asleep, exhausted, in each other’s arms the night before - the night after it had all happened, the body swap, the trials. After they’d finally escaped Heaven and Hell. When they’d kissed at last, and held each other, and Crowley had felt more cared for than he had in millenia. 

“Had some weird dreams,” Crowley mumbled. 

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s hair again. “That’s to be expected. You’ve had a trying time of it.” 

Crowley stared at his angel. On his sleep-crusted tongue he could still taste the salt of the sea, the sand of the desert, the stone of his skin in that strange noiseless city. But he could also smell the impossible sweetness of the flowers. And suddenly he felt so full he thought he would break apart. 

“Angel,” he breathed. 

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. “Yes?” 

Crowley lifted himself up into a sitting position, and took Aziraphale’s face in his hands - carefully, carefully, as he handled this most precious of celestial jewels - and kissed him with all the tenderness his mouth could summon, without giving way to desperation. Aziraphale, surprised for a moment, swiftly put his book down and his hands around Crowley’s shoulders, kissing him back. 

“I love you,” Crowley said at last, leaning their foreheads together when he could stand to pull their lips apart. “I’ve loved you for _so long_.” 

Aziraphale’s face was lit up like the sun. He _was_ the sun, he was the sky, he was everything. “My dear boy. I love you too.” 

How often he’d dismissed those words as impossible. How often he’d mocked himself for dreaming of them, for hoping for them, for praying for them. How often he’d made himself cynical, when the alternative was doomed, agonizing wanting. But he didn’t have to want anymore. He didn’t have to hunger. Aziraphale was here. 

“I believe it,” Crowley said. “Oh, angel, I believe you.” 

Aziraphale didn’t ask why Crowley’s voice was broken and his eyes filled with tears. He merely smiled, and put an arm around Crowley, and held him as he picked up his book again. And Crowley shut his eyes once more. And let his mind relax, wandering in the safety of his angel’s embrace. 

He was not afraid, anymore, to dream.

**Author's Note:**

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